


Bullets and Band-Aids

by NamelesslyNightlock



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Desperation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Feels, Fluff, Forehead Touching, Gun Violence, Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Hurt Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Gets a Hug, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Needs a Hug, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26699980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock
Summary: It’s not the first time Joe’s seen Nicolò die. He hopes it’s not the last. But either way, he knows that he can’t just walk away from it feelingfine.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 26
Kudos: 358





	Bullets and Band-Aids

**Author's Note:**

> So I might have just felt like writing some angst and the fight scene with Keane was the first thing that came to mind, because they just deserved a hug after this, okay? Okay.  
>   
> And thank you again to **Rabentochter** for listening to me whine about synonyms!

Joe knew that Nicolò was dead.

He’d seen the gun push its way between Nicolò’s lips, had seen the widening of his love’s eyes, the pure fear that shone where kindness usually gleamed.

Joe had tried to get up faster, had shouted his pain with the force and effort of it. His arms were shaking, his lungs burning, his whole body _screaming_ but he had to _move,_ because Nicolò needed him—

But he wasn’t fast enough. A hand had buried in Nicolò’s hair, had torn his head up as the gun jammed down—and the crack of the shot hit Joe even harder than the punch he’d suffered to the neck.

His whole body jerked with it, the sound ricocheting through his ears. His eyes were on the merc, knowing that if he looked down to Nicolò he would not be able to look away. The man stared back at him—and Joe didn’t know what the man saw in his expression, but it must have been something nasty, something dark. _Must_ have been, because Nicolò was _dead,_ and because because without Nicolò, Joe knew he became something… _else._

The man turned, and he _ran—_ and Joe could have followed. But there were more pressing matters.

He was still struggling to breathe, the hit to his windpipe and the gas both making every gasp a torture. His head was pounding, his vision almost as shaky as his arms, but he _had_ to get across the floor. Rubble pressed into his hands and stuck at his knees, the lingering gas still tearing at his throat and eyes, but he kept on going, Nicolò’s broken, unmoving form the only thing he could see, the only thing that _mattered._

It had to be. He couldn’t afford to think of anything else. If he let other thoughts into his mind, he’d start thinking of the _what ifs,_ and then, he truly would be shattered.

Joe only paused his desperate crawl when he was close enough to Nicolò to touch him, the dust under his palms giving way to slick blood. Desperate breaths quickened, three heartbeats filled the space that would normally claim only one. His chest ached from more than just want of oxygen as he stared down at Nicolò’s still-shocked expression, those empty eyes cutting him to pieces.

Even after nine hundred years, seeing Nicolò this way never got any easier. Nicolò, who was usually so full of light, so full of _life,_ lying there as little more than a pale and desolate shell—

Joe’s hands trembled as he reached down, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch his love’s skin. Couldn’t face feeling coldness where there should only ever be warmth, couldn’t chase away the paralysing fear that maybe… maybe, this would be the _last_ time he’d see Nicolò this way—

And the very moment that thought hit his mind, Joe had to look away.

Yes, Joe knew that Nicolò was dead. It was hardly the first time. But the pain that lanced through his heart, the twist of his gut which tore at him more sharply than any twist of any knife ever could would always, always bring him to the edge of falling apart, to the precipice of breaking, where the only thing that could pull him back was—

Nicolò gasped, a harsh cough tearing from his lips as his bloodied and _whole_ head lifted from the ground.

The relief that coursed through Joe was immeasurable, immediately filling the void left behind by fleeing fear. His breath left his lungs in the same moment that all tension left his limbs, his body sagging forward. It was a feeling he knew well, a feeling he could never get enough of—a feeling that had him near collapsing over Nicolò’s trembling form.

No matter how long they were together, no matter how many times they’d died, the relief remained the same. _Every single time_ it was the same.

It always would be.

He gave himself a second, the fingers of the hand not holding him up curling around Nicolò’s arm. He let the touch ground him, feeling the renewed pulse of blood under the skin, the shift of tendons as Nicolò moved. Letting himself _feel_ that his love was still alive.

That he was not alone.

That Nicolò was still there with him, still breathing, still _warm._

Nicolò was gasping, almost retching, but he still reached for Joe. His other hand curled around Joe’s other arm, and for just a short moment, they held on to each other.

It was less than half a second, nothing but a flash, but it was precious enough that Joe wanted to stretch the second to a millennium—

Then Nicolò groaned, rolled over, and reached for a gun.

“Let’s go. _Andy.”_

Instinctively, Joe’s fingers tightened on Nicolò’s arm before he forced himself to let go—and it _was_ a matter of forcing, because letting go of Nicolò always felt like the most unnatural thing in the world. 

But, Joe knew that Nicolò was right. Andy was mortal, and she needed them. He also knew that there was more than just Andy at stake. They needed to end Merrick, they needed to end _all of it._ If they didn’t, who was to say that they wouldn’t end up strapped to another set of operating tables sooner rather than later? Even just the _memory_ of scalpels slicing pieces from Nicolò’s skin was enough to make his blood boil.

However, through all of that logic… Joe also knew that he was _not_ okay.

It didn’t matter that he had seen Nicolò die more times than he could count, more times than he could remember. It didn’t matter. What _mattered_ was the terror that coursed through him every time, and the fact that the memory of Nicolò’s empty eyes remained imprinted behind his own.

Still, he forced himself to move, to stand, to grab a gun of his own from one of the fallen mercs. He couldn’t help but reach out to touch Nicolò as he passed, though he pulled his hand away quickly, sure that if he gave in now, he wouldn’t be able to keep moving.

“Come on,” he muttered, more to himself than to Nicolò. “Come on, come on—”

But his feet stumbled as he made it through the door, and he had to catch himself against the frame. Nicolò ran right into him, not having expected him to stop, and his mind and reactions were likely still hazy from his ordeal—yet, Nicolò’s hand catching his shoulder was the only thing to stop Joe from falling.

There was no need for words of explanation to pass between them. They both _knew._ Joe turned and reached to cup Nicolò’s cheek even as Nicolò’s free hand wound around Joe’s back, their foreheads leaning together. Joe’s hand was still trembling, and Nicolò pulled him even closer. 

Their touch was little more than a band-aid on a literal bullet wound, but it was better than nothing. It was enough.

It _had_ to be.

Joe drew in a long breath, eyes closing as the taste of dust and gunpowder stuck to the tip of his tongue. But he focused on _Nicolò—_ on his hand at Joe’s back, the press of his head, the brush of his breath, the warmth of his skin.

“Sono qui,” Nicolò whispered, voice hoarse but gentle. “Sono qui, amore mio.”

“Sì,” Joe replied, speaking just as softly. “Io so.”

_I know._

Finally steadied, Joe lifted his head, knowing that Nicolò would only need to see his expression to understand that he was ready. Yet, sharp grey eyes still traced the lines of his face, still looked for a sign of distress. Nicolò would no doubt find plenty, for Joe was far from fine. They both were—but they were well enough to keep going. Well enough to end this, to make sure that they would walk away free so that they could get somewhere safe and private and _theirs._ So that they could heal in peace. Properly.

Finally, reluctantly, they let go of each other, hefted their weapons, and turned their focus to the task at hand. Joe knew it would be brutal, that it would be gruelling. But through the fight ahead, through the blood and the noise and the _anger,_ there was one simple truth which held him steady—

Nicolò was alive.

Nicolò was _alive._

And for as long as that remained true... everything else remained elementary.


End file.
